Her Northern Star
by the-effin-mitchell
Summary: For thousands of years, sailors have looked to the stars to understand where they are; a guiding light, a way home when home is nowhere to be found. But there are other ways to get lost - in the paths we take, in events that overwhelm us, even in our own minds. What do we turn to then to guide us from darkness to light? What if it's other people - a single person even? Semi-rewrite


**A/N: So, I wrote this awhile ago as a writing exercise, but then I expanded on it a bit more and though I updated it on my AO3 account, I kind of forgot about it on FFN. So, here it is again - longer than the original, still incomplete, but definitely to be continued**

* * *

 _For thousands of years, sailors have looked to the stars to understand where they are. As the ocean moves beneath them, they take comfort in the fixed mark of the North Star. In the vastness of space, it's but one amongst many; on Earth, down below, it's the one constant in a world that is otherwise continuously in motion; a guiding light; a way home, when home is nowhere to be found._

 _But there are other ways to get lost - in the choices we make, in the paths we take, in events that overwhelm us… even within our own minds. What can be an anchor then? What beacon do we turn to… to guide us from darkness to light?_

 _What if it's other people? A single person, even? Because even in our darkest hours, the light they bring will never fade…_

* * *

Depression is nothing like the movies make it out to be; there's nothing poetic about it, no poignant beauty hidden beneath the surface of one's suffering. There is no slow, mournful melody in the backdrop; no white flashes or fades to black, no immediate transition into the scene after. Depression isn't angry marks on pale skin; it isn't wandering lonely street corners in search of direction; it isn't drinking oneself into oblivion night after night, waking up each morning only to repeat the process again. It's none of that.

(Though, sometimes it is.)

Mostly though, depression is unfixed beds and piles of dirty laundry, heaps of trash and unused items shoved under the mattress or desk; it's a loss of appetite, a lack of hunger or general desire for anything all together; it's overeating, the mindless need to fill oneself with substance in order to satisfy the hollow ache within; it's unhygienic, carrying with it a disregard for one's overall appearance and presentation; it's doubt and self-deprecation, bursts of anger and fits of tears, held back by clenched jaws and rapid blinks. It's lethargic, it's sporadic; it's giving up, it's giving in.

Depression is any number of things… but it _isn't_ like the movies, and that, Beca thinks, might just be the worst thing about it.

Because if it were anything like the movies, then perhaps she'd have had some inkling of understanding; something to point out to her that this was really happening, that this wasn't just some figment of her imagination or a made up scenario in her head. If it had been like the movies, maybe she could have seen the signs and done something about it; she could have noticed earlier how truly off her game she had been, and sought help before it ever got this far.

 _If_ it had been like the movies…

But it isn't. This is real life, Beca tells herself, and there are no happy endings - _only endings_ \- and it doesn't take long for her to realize that she is reaching the conclusion of her own.

She stands on the brink of something unknown, of something she can't describe or define; words are meaningless, too weak to convey the depth of this emotion. She imagines this is what the titan Atlas must have felt, the crushing weight of the world bearing down on one's shoulders; every step is a struggle, heavy and burdened. She keeps moving, but she's going nowhere, and every forward motion only serves to push her further back.

The darkness becomes darker, the pain grows sharper; everything seems to magnify the longer this goes on, and Beca wonders if things will ever get better…

She hopes they do.

(But she knows they won't.)

* * *

Things were getting better.

The Bellas had rediscovered their sound, graduation was right around the corner, and Worlds was soon to follow. It was a whirlwind of emotion and high energy, a veritable smorgasbord of excitement and festivity as everyone kicked themselves into high gear. For the first time in a long time, they were acting like the Bellas of old - a fine tuned, cohesive unit - and things were getting better.

At least, that's what Chloe likes to believe; what she likes to tell herself, despite the growing concerns for her best friend and co-captain. Beca's internship was no big secret to her; she had learnt of the DJ's new position at Residual Heat long ago, spotting the ID badge still clipped to her shirt atop an ever increasing pile of unwashed clothes. It hurt, of course, that Beca would feel the need to hide this from her, but considering the amount of stress they were both feeling at the time, she let it slide.

She could wait, patiently if needed, for Beca to come to her.

And come to her she did; in a tiny ball of pent up fury, Beca snapped, ranting and raving as she stormed off at the retreat. In retrospect, Chloe should have known better, should have seen it as the unintended cry for help that it was. Instead, she let her own emotions guide her, let her own anger control her reaction; it isn't until now, weeks later, does she recall the weary look of resignation and defeat; Beca's eyes steely, cold, unforgiving.

The ensuing heart-to-heart around the campfire had helped ease the tension, and after their impromptu recital of the 'Cup Song' - Beca's original audition, and a pivotal role in both their friendship and the formation of the current Bellas - things began to relax, to get better. And Chloe assumed, after all had been said and done, it would stay that way.

But she can't fight this feeling, can't ignore this overwhelming sense of foreboding; she's losing Beca, or maybe Beca's losing herself - she can't figure it out. All Chloe knows is that she's spent three years learning the varying degrees of Beca's smile, deciphering the language of her eyes, and reading every tick of emotion that's crossed her face; and everything she sees now is a lie, a _facade_ , a mask for her to hide behind.

For whatever reason, Beca has reverted back to her freshman self, and that scares Chloe more than she likes to acknowledge. Because as much as it pains her to admit, she's built a life around the younger woman, and to watch the very foundation of that life crumble away - little by little - is gut wrenching and terrifying. It's a lot like holding water in one's hands; clinging desperately, trying to keep it all in, even as it slips through your fingertips - but once it's gone, it's gone.

And Chloe wonders, if she can't find a way to stem the flow, how long will it take before Beca's gone for good?

* * *

They're winners. Champions of the acapella world. "The kings of campus!" as Jesse once proclaimed.

 _So why does she feel like such a loser?_

Beca sighs, staring down into her third rum and coke of the night, watching the bouncing lights of whatever club they've stumbled into reflect off it's surface; it's a motley of color, a kaleidoscope that she finds herself falling into. And she wonders, if she tries hard enough, can she drown herself in its muddled depths? Can she disappear beneath the waves of cold ice and liquid fire, sink into oblivion and the infinite abyss.

Her nose wrinkles in displeasure. _'God, that sounds pathetic - even in my own head…'_

With a huff, she tips back and drains the contents of the cup in two large gulps; the soda fizzes harshly, the alcohol burns her throat, and it's the first real sensation she's felt all night. Beca flags down the bartender and orders another, and after throwing down what she hopes is the appropriate amount of money (the exchange rate from dollar to krone still eludes her), she takes her drink and sets out to find her friends.

"Shawshank!" she hears, shouted out over the blaring music in Amy's distinctive voice. A few moments later, the Australian emerges from the crowd like a beast from the brush, shoving man and woman alike as she fights to reach the DJ's side. "Oh good, thought we'd lost you there! C'mon, we got the VIP booth. The owner is like a huge acapella nerd, so like, best spot in the house!"

Beca forces a smile and follows, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation as Amy grabs her hand, leading her like a child through the mass of writhing bodies because, "she's a pint to everyone else's litre". It takes a lot of pushing and shoving, but they finally reach their intended destination, and she falls into a cushioned love seat with a heavy sigh. An instant later, a second body comes crashing down beside her, and Beca doesn't need to turn to see who it is.

"Beca!" Chloe exclaims, cozying into the brunette's side. "Where've you been?" Beca gestures silently to her drink, to which she replies skeptically, "For half an hour?"

"There was a long line," is her only response, and the conversation is dropped.

Chloe frowns, blemishing her features as she eyes the younger woman; there's that feeling again, that intuition that not everything is as well as it seems. She wants to say something, wants to bring up this obvious strain that Beca is too afraid or too stubborn to bring up herself; but the words catch in her throat, dying on the tip of her tongue and ghosting her lips in a breathy sigh. Instead, she reaches out, clasping Beca's hand in her own, and hopes that - at least for now - it'll be enough.

Beca startles at the touch, the gentle warmth of Chloe's hand engulfing her own; she glances down, watching as their fingers intertwine, silently marveling at the way her digits seem to fill the gaps between her own. It's funny, she muses, how it's always been that way; how Chloe seems to fill the gaps and empty spaces in her life, even when she was unaware they needed filling.

But what should serve as an act of comfort only reminds Beca that she is somehow defective, that there is a vast stretch of nothingness laid out before her, and that she is headed in a direction that shouldn't be followed. Her heart aches with the realization that she's most likely dead weight, incapable of handling her own self; how sad, lonely, and pathetic she must be, relying on others to bring meaning to her life.

She rips her hand away, oblivious to the hurt that flashes through Chloe's eyes and mumbles something about needing air. Jerking to her feet, Beca waves off the protests of her friends and slips away; the crowd ebbs and flows with the rhythm of the beat, and she sinks beneath their waves, jostled to and fro in the tide of dancing bodies. She has no sense of direction or time as she's swept away, letting the current take her where it pleases, and by the time Beca washes out onto the other side, she's saturated with high energy - as if she were a sponge that had soaked it all in.

It prompts her to move, and downing what remains of her drink, Beca tosses caution and common sense to the wayside. She shoves her way to the entrance of the club; pushing open the doors, she steps out, the cool night air hitting her warm cheeks in a chilly greeting. For a moment, she stands there, head angled towards the darkened sky as she takes several deep, soothing breaths - as if she's been suffocating all night, and is only now getting her fair share of oxygen.

Then she runs.

Beca doesn't know why she does it, doesn't know whether or not she's running from something, or to something; the only thing she's certain of is that her life is getting away from her, and she thinks, perhaps, if she runs fast enough, runs far enough, then maybe she can finally catch up to it.

* * *

 _Chloe [23:04]: You've been gone a long time. Everything okay?_

 _Chloe [23:27]: I'm outside. I don't see you._

 _Chloe [23:55]: Did you go back to the hotel?_

 _Chloe [00:31]: Okay, I'm really starting to worry._

 _Chloe [01:02]: You're scaring me, Beca. Please answer your phone._

 _Chloe [01:14]: Just let me know that you're okay._

 _Chloe [01:33]: WHERE ARE YOU. ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE._

 _Chloe [01:52]: We're going back to the hotel. I'll leave a light on for you._

 _Chloe [02:40]: I hope you're okay. Please be safe and come back soon…_

* * *

Humans are hardwired to survive, but are they programmed to live? Beca wonders what's the difference, wonders what separates those that are alive from those that are actually living. She wishes she knew, wishes she cared enough to find out; instead, she simply asks herself "what's the point?" - if there was ever one to begin with.

Is there?

Beca gasps for air, lungs burning for oxygen, thighs aching for reprieve; she's ran a dozen city blocks in the span of fifteen or twenty minutes, and though her muscles scream in protest, she can't find it within herself to stop. Because she's moving - _finally moving!_ \- and what will happen when she slows down, when she stops? Will her life stop too? She's afraid to find out.

So she keeps running, legs churning beneath her, and for once, it's Beca who passes the world by.

But everything comes to a screeching halt only moments later, in a flash of light and a piercing shriek; something powerful breaks through her haze of numbness, slamming into her with such force, and now she's flying; up, up and away, she goes. She feels light, feels airy, as if a gentle breeze could sweep her into its arms and carry her away - and maybe that wouldn't be so bad, she thinks. Because lately, that's all she feels she's doing, drifting aimlessly in the wind; no sense of purpose, no direction, just going wherever the flow takes her.

And just when she's beginning to accept this, to embrace her fate as a zephyr, gravity calls her back. Her body bounces once, twice, three times, shattering along the pavement before rolling to a stop in a broken heap; cold Earth below her, the stars and moon above, and as pain blossoms in her chest, Beca considers her earlier thoughts.

Maybe she'll survive this, maybe she won't… but the real question still remains: will she live?

* * *

"It's not your fault."

It's just a phrase, just a blending of words; four insignificant little words that, when separate, hold no true meaning. But put together, and in that particular order… Chloe never knew she could hate something so much as she does those words right now.

"It's not your fault."

She's lost count over how many times it's been said to her, how many times it's played over and over in her mind, like a broken record stuck on repeat. She hates it; hates it so much, with so much passion, with so much fury. She hates it because it's true, hates it because it's not, hates that Beca is gone, and hates that she let her go.

"It's not your-..."

"Aubrey, please," she begs, shaking free of the gentle hand placed atop her shoulder. "I know you mean well, but if I have to hear one more person tell me that it's not my fault…" The sentence is left unfinished, left to hang in the air as a reminder that Chloe herself is barely hanging on - dangling over the edge of uncertainty, dragged down by fear and doubt.

"I'm sorry," says Aubrey softly, an apologetic smile tugging at her lips. "I know how difficult this must be for you, but you can't keep piling the blame on yourself like this. It's on all of us, Chlo. We all knew something was up… we just didn't see it."

 _"But I did!"_ Chloe insists, leaping from where she's sat in order to pace the now well-worn linoleum. "I knew something was wrong when she started lying about the internship, but I never realized it was anything more until after the retreat. And even then, I… I don't know, I've just had this terrible feeling all year, and I thought it would go away after she told me the truth, but it's still there… that gut instinct that Beca isn't okay. And I was right! Beca isn't okay, and I never said anything - never tried to help - and now we're in a foreign country, and she went missing, and then-..."

"Shh, Chloe… shh," Aubrey interrupts, pulling the shorter woman into a tight embrace. "Beca isn't okay, and maybe she hasn't been for a long time… but she will be. Because she has you, her best friend, and she has us, the Bellas, and she has her family and friends, and everyone else who loves her to help her pull through this. Besides, Beca's always been a fighter… she won't go down without a struggle."

Chloe nods, offering a small yet appreciative smile; Beca is a fighter, of that she can agree, but though she doesn't express this concern aloud, she's terrified there will come a day when Beca won't want to fight anymore.


End file.
